


Feeling Trapped

by Skalidra



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Aliens Made Them Do It, Alpha Slade Wilson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Canon Universe, Gladiators, M/M, Mutual Non-Con, Non-Graphic Violence, Omega Jason Todd, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:00:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27323143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Jason's seen a lot of weird shit in his life. It comes hand in hand with the whole hero thing. Magic, aliens, ghosts, weird mutations that have no business actually happening. Jason's seena lot,and he's had enough experience to know that there's always something weirder he hasn't gotten to yet. He also knows a lot of it he isn't going to like, because that's his luck. He never gets the cool weird things. He gets the ones that try to eat his face, more often than not.So waking up groggy and in a cell he's got absolutely no memory of isn't shocking, exactly. It's just unnerving, and really fucking unwelcome.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 257
Collections: SladeRobin Week 2020





	Feeling Trapped

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This one is a little late because I got distracted, but this was for day 6 of SladeRobin week, featuring the prompt 'Trapped Together.' This is canon-universe, aliens-made-us-do-it, omegaverse. Have fun!
> 
> (As always, anyone who wants/needs full content explanation can find it in the bottom notes.)

Jason's seen a lot of weird shit in his life. It comes hand in hand with the whole hero thing. Magic, aliens, ghosts, weird mutations that have no business actually happening. Jason's seen _a lot_ , and he's had enough experience to know that there's always something weirder he hasn't gotten to yet. He also knows a lot of it he isn't going to like, because that's his luck. He never gets the cool weird things. He gets the ones that try to eat his face, more often than not.

So waking up groggy and in a cell he's got absolutely no memory of isn't shocking, exactly. It's just unnerving, and really fucking unwelcome.

His head's fuzzy. His fingers scrape the floor as he pushes himself up, leaning on an elbow. Okay, categorize. Focus.

The floor's metal. Black metal. It's cold against his skin, so his hands are bare. So are his feet. No, he... He's still wearing what he went to sleep in. A tank-top, sweatpants. No gear, no scent blockers. Someone — or something — must have grabbed him from his bed. Which means they got through his security, took him, and got him all the way to wherever this is without waking him up. That's not good.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to get his muscles to cooperate. He feels… weak.

Another two breaths and he gets up on a knee, lifting his head to look around.

It's definitely a cell. Four walls of the same black metal, with only thin seams between panels to disrupt it. There's what might be a door in the wall in front of him, slightly recessed in a mostly rectangular shape, but there's no handle or window or anything else he can see. Not even hinges. Nothing else at all, not at the 'door,' not on the rest of the walls, nothing. There's two strips along the ceiling of a white-ish light, but looking at it makes his eyes hurt. He's pretty sure it's too high for him to reach anyway, even if he jumped.

Great. No gear, no clue where he is or how he got here, and nothing in here for him to work with.

Slowly, he finds his feet. It doesn't feel like any kind of head wound, no pain or anything, but it's not quite like any sedative after-effect he knows of either. It almost feels like the kind of grogginess that comes from a mid-afternoon nap, when he sleeps longer than he intends to. Not drugs, just a good old fashioned flaw of the human system. Interrupted REM sleep, except this is lingering way longer than anything like that should. The weakness in his limbs is weird, too.

Jason goes to the 'door' first. Escape rooms aren't anything new. Not the first time he's broken out of a room that he wasn't supposed to be able to; he's conquered worse than this in training. (Maybe not actually _worse_ , but he's going to choose to believe otherwise. It's fine. He can do this.)

There are thin seams around the outside of the recession, but nothing that he can work with without some kind of tool. His nails don't get any purchase. The 'door' itself is unusually big. Twelve feet high by at least five wide, conservatively. Something big is supposed to be able to fit through here. That's a little concerning. His investigation of the seams on the wall brings up the same result. Nothing wide enough for him to work with, nothing that gives him any purchase or seems in any way damaged or weak. Fuck.

Okay, next step.

He's just gotten back to the 'door,' starting to tap against the metal beside the door for any discrepancies, any possibly hidden panels, anything at all, when there's a sharp, high-pitched tone that slices through the room. Jason jerks back, hands yanking up to cover his ears automatically before it abruptly ends. There's no speakers that he can see. How did they…?

The door slides right down into the floor with a whir and a faint hiss, and—

_Fuck_.

The two things that step through, barking at him in some kind of language he most definitely doesn't understand, are each almost ten feet tall and dressed head to toe in white armor. Four arms each, a set facing forward and another back. Definitely not human, but what they've each got in their front set of hands are definitely some kind of weapon. Looks gun-like.

"Woah," Jason says on automatic, backing up a couple steps. "Hey, I don't know what—”

The one on the left snaps something — the language is kind of musical, but like the jangle of a bunch of notes at once — and makes a sharp gesture towards the floor that Jason doesn't need any kind of translator to understand. Rapidly he considers that armor, the weapons, the sliver of what might be a corridor past the opened door. Shit. For all he knows he's on a spaceship or something and there's nothing out there but fifteen more of these things and empty space, and him with nothing but loosely tied sweatpants and the last bits of a foggy blanket still lingering over his thoughts.

Carefully, grudgingly, he sinks down to his knees, hands up by his head.

He's better off waiting. He needs to know what he's gotten into here. He needs information.

That doesn't mean he likes the hands that close on his arms and drag him up as the aliens — gotta be aliens — flank him, or the fact that those extra arms mean they don't have to give up holding him at what might be gunpoint just because they're also holding his arms. Strong grip, too. Probably not going to bruise, but it's close. That's not promising.

(There's also practically no scent to them, beyond metal and something sharp and chemical, and that is way more disconcerting than he'd like to admit.)

It is a corridor outside. More than wide enough for three or four of these things to walk abreast, and with a ceiling high enough Jason's pretty sure he couldn't reach it even if he climbed one of them first. Everything’s still made of metal, but it’s shades of grey with sharp blue accents, instead of the black of the cell. There’s writing on the walls, but it’s nothing he can recognize. Blocky and rigid enough it's probably signs of some kind, though, if all his pattern recognition drills were worth a damn. Most cultures and languages share commonalities like that. Signs have to be readable, regardless of how they're written.

There are other doors, spaced almost precisely evenly, staggered on each side. They're easier to recognize from out here; there's still no handles, but there are little strips of computer paneling by the side of each one with what looks like a label, and then a rectangular feed of the inside of the cell.

There's things in… most of them. Aliens. Some on the more humanoid side, some really definitely not.

Are these things slave traders or something? Jailers? Jason's pretty damn sure that he hasn't done anything worth getting picked up by alien space jailers, unless he broke some kind of big law in his travels with Kori. That's an intensely delayed reaction, though, if that's the reason. (But big universe, so, not impossible. Surely she'd have known, though.)

They round a corner — the walls curving in odd juxtaposition to the sharp angle of where floor meets ceiling — and the aliens abruptly drag him to the far side, to one of the doors. He gets one glance at the screen (humanoid occupant, sitting on a bed?) before it's blocked by the swipe of an armored hand over the whole thing, which changes the screen to a blue glow. The door opens just like his did, the same whir and hiss as it slides right into the floor.

They shove him in.

Jason staggers but keeps his feet, drawing in a breath as he yanks his head up to look around the room, and _alpha_ hits his nose. Sharp and overwhelming, concentrated in the air that rushes into his lungs, like steel and gunpowder and copper.

He freezes for a half-second, which is just enough time for the door to shut behind him, trapping him in here with whatever the hell it is this cell belongs to. Something that smells like alpha, standing up from a cot-like bed in the corner and unfolding into something big and tall and… human. Definitely human. White hair, beard, blue eyes.

Wait… he knows that face, doesn't he?

"Deathstroke…?"

Slade's head tilts slightly as he takes a step forward — clothed in a loose black cloth wrap at his hips and _nothing else, jesus_ — and looks at him for a second, studying.

His eye narrows. "Red Hood."

What the fuck is Slade Wilson — _Deathstroke_ , world's pretty-much greatest assassin — doing in some alien prison?

Before Jason can actually ask that, Slade's jaw sets. "You're an omega."

And he can't help but bristle at that _dista_ s _te_ , his hands drawing into fists as he bares his teeth, his eyes narrowing in turn. "Yeah, _jackass_. You have a fucking problem with that?"

Slade steps closer, expression closed off and voice just as guarded. "No. I'm going to need you to listen to me, kid. Now."

"Why the fuck should I do that?"

"You know where we are? Why we're here?" Jason hesitates, and Slade cuts right back in. "Then shut up and listen. This is an arena. Stolen races from all over the universe; fights to the death. They target the 'best' killers of any race, best I can tell. Whatever they can grab."

Jason feels a little, uncomfortable squirm in his gut. "So why am I here?"

He knows he's damn good, but he's also self aware enough to know he's not at the top of the standings when it comes to killers. Deathstroke, sure, he gets that, but him? There's a whole bunch of other metas that come first on that list (and a few regular humans, too). If someone was really targeting killers for some kind of gladiatorial arena, he's pretty sure he wouldn't be who they'd grab.

Slade's jaw tightens even further. "Incentive." The word sounds ugly, spat between his teeth like that. "I haven't been cooperating, and best I can tell these things don't seem to consider humans much above animals. You’re here to make me _manageable_.”

"'Manageable'?" he echoes, but it only takes the length of time the words take to leave his mouth for a couple nasty possibilities to come swimming to the front of his mind.

He's an omega. Slade's an alpha. If you're an alien race that thinks of humans as animals, maybe you give an aggressive alpha something to protect. A potential mate, something 'weaker' they'd be compelled to protect. Something that could be hurt to make them give in, or something to keep them happy so they allow captivity. Something to make them… manageable.

His hands clench tighter. "Why me? I don't even know you."

Slade's single eye flicks over him. "Couldn't tell you. Maybe they were looking for Nightwing and took you instead."

"We're not fucking interchangeable."

There's no real reaction to his snap. Just a hard look. "Might be to someone that doesn't know better. Black hair, blue eyes, male presentation, previous Robins, pawns of the Bat. You're not as different as you think, Hood."

He's _not_ Dick. They're not the same thing in different colors, and Slade's supposed to be so fucking obsessed with Dick he should know that, the bastard. (Not to mention that Dick is an alpha, which is one big fucking difference between them that's never going to go away. That's not the kind of thing you can just ignore.)

"I'm not—”

The blare of the same high-pitched tone that warned him away from the door last time cuts him off, and he winces at the same time as Slade snarls and jerks, head twisting as if he can shake it out of his ears. It only lasts a couple seconds, but when Jason turns to look at the door, scan the wall, there's nothing. They're not coming in. Is it just some kind of a reprimand? Warning? It's a little painful but it's not like it really hurts.

Or… It doesn't hurt him. Slade's enhanced, right? Strength, stamina, healing, all of that. He doesn't recall if it extends to senses too, but Slade reacted much more openly to that noise than he would have expected. That makes sense if his hearing is enhanced. And it would make sense that these aliens use that as some kind of punishment if they're basing their expectations of humans on Slade.

(Jason hopes, in a sudden sharp rush, that they don't think _all_ humans heal like Slade does. That could be really, really bad.)

Slade shakes his head one last time, gaze shifting up towards the angle of wall and ceiling, near the door. "They're getting impatient."

He follows the direction of the look, but he can't see anything. Just flat, smooth metal. "For what? What are they expecting?"

Slade's teeth flash, and it's not aimed at him but Jason still feels his shoulders tense. Slade is big, powerful, _alpha_ in a way that he very instinctively doesn't want to be on the wrong side of. "Best guess? They're waiting for me to either kill you, or fuck you."

He stiffens.

That's not… No. _No_.

He bares his teeth, shifting his legs apart to brace his weight more evenly, coil tight to be ready to move. "No. I'm not going to—”

There's a haze of blue light, and _pain_.

He's only sort of aware of screaming, hitting the ground in a heap as pain burns into his muscles, dragging hooks under his skin and ripping him apart from the inside. It must be flaying him alive, splitting open his skin to bone. It's fire and ice and a thousand needles and he can't fucking _breathe_ —

It cuts out. The light vanishes.

Jason gasps in a breath, realizing he's half-curled on the ground, his cheek pressed to the metal. His fingers scrape over it as he struggles to push back up on his arms, but they collapse under him the moment he tries to get his weight on them. He can't-- It's like something just drained all the strength right out of his limbs. Everything is limp and shaking, as if he pushed himself way too hard. His heart thunders in his chest.

There's a voice speaking, mechanical and in unfamiliar language, from somewhere above his head. He only half-hears it, and he's got no idea what it was saying, but Slade answers as if he understood.

"It doesn't work like that," he growls, deep and annoyed. "You don't know what you're talking about."

The answer is short and clipped. Insistent.

Slade's expression is furious, teeth not quite bared but they might as well be. He steps forward, and Jason manages only a few inches of pushing away before Slade's sinking to his knees next to him. Jason snarls as Slade reaches for him, but his protest is ignored, a hand sliding under his head and helping him to hold it off the ground. The other takes his wrist, ignoring how he pulls away, and presses a thumb to the base of his wrist. There's a few moments of pause before Slade lets his wrist go again. Pulse; it was just taking his pulse.

"Don't," he breathes, about as much as he finds himself able to manage. "Don't touch me."

"It's your call, kid," Slade says, low and clipped. His hand shifts, thumb pressing in against his neck at just the right angle to make his breath catch. "I can make it fast. You won't feel much."

Slade's offering to… what? Snap his neck and be done with it? Kill him, just like that? He doesn't want… He doesn't want to _die_ in some random alien prison for no reason, just because some thing mistook him for Dick or thought he was 'good enough' or whatever the fuck happened. Just because he's an omega, and an alien decided Deathstroke needed to be _tamed_.

"I— I don't—” His breath catches for entirely different reasons than the thumb lingering at his throat, his shoulders jerking in a shudder. " _Fuck_ you. Fuck you."

Slade looks like he's carved from stone. Tense and hard, but the hand at his skull doesn't tighten, or grip, or yank. It stays gentle, holding his head at an angle to look up. "They're not going to take you back to Earth; they'll hit you with that beam until you do what they want or it kills you." There's a slow breath, and his voice drops even lower. "Your choice, kid."

'What they want.' Yeah. What they want is for Slade to— For him to be— _Fuck_. They want Slade to _fuck_ him. Pervy fucking goddamn alien _bastards_.

He bares his teeth. Snarls and starts to push, and—

_Pain_ again, cutting through him from shoulder to thigh. He seizes, all the remaining air forcing out of his lungs in a cry, the light blinding him for a moment before his eyes squeeze shut on automatic. It drives the thoughts right out of his head, no matter how he clings. Turns everything to white noise and static and he struggles but can't shake it, can't hold onto anything but the pain and how it burns, and _burns_.

Everything fades back in with a hand cradling his head, his face against skin, his nose full of scent. _Anger_ , but warmth, alpha, and safety.

Someone's saying something, a low rumble that he can't understand but there's comfort in the vibration, the tone of it. He breathes fitfully, feeling slowly leeching back into his fingers. The skin underneath his cheek expands, retracts, and something in him automatically tries to match it. It hurts to lift his chest that far, hurts to breathe in that deeply and force his lungs to cooperate.

It slowly filters in that he's held in a lap, his head to a chest with Slade's low baritone murmuring, "That's it, kid. Breathe. Slow. You know how to do this." Fingers stroking down the side of his jaw, smoothing back his hair. On and on, until he can flex his hands without it burning, until his lungs expand without any ache, and he can match the long, deep inhalations Slade is offering.

He slits his eyes open then, looks up to a sharp blue eye, and tightly restrained anger. Not at him. Even weak, even still fuzzy, he knows that. The arm wrapped around the back of his shoulders is solid but not tight, and the one resting against his jaw is gentle, barely more than the brush of calluses and rough knuckles. Slade isn't angry with him.

"Can you hear me, kid?" Slade asks, and the vibrations resonate into his skull.

He takes another breath. Nods, slowly and carefully.

The low rumble cuts right through his bones, eases him with an instant feeling of safety. That's not… right, but he's still struggling to hold onto thoughts and it takes so much effort to try and hold onto that one. He can't manage it. It feels like being young again, held, a deep alpha rumble calming away the panic and the pain. He's aware of an arm looping underneath his knees, of being lifted, but his eyes flutter and he doesn't really note it. Not till he's set down, fabric crinkling under his shoulders and palms.

He opens his eyes, stares up. Slade is looking down at him, too.

"I don't want to die," bursts out of Jason, as he's staring up at Slade's face. He didn't mean to say it. He didn't mean to admit that the idea of dying — again — for something so fucking stupid scares him. He feels— He feels _helpless_ and he hates it. He feels _weak_.

Slade's eye flicks, taking in his face. His expression doesn't change. "Alright." A hand lowers, cupping his jaw. "Do you want to fight?"

The question makes Jason suck in a sharp breath. His eyes widen. He tries to tense, too, but it leaves his muscles as quickly as it came.

"You want to fight me, kid, that's fine," he's saying, and Jason tries to listen. "I'll keep you alive."

The bed dips as Slade joins him on it, kneeling over his thighs, tracing a thumb down his neck, to the strap of his tank-top. It rubs over the jut of his collarbone, lingers there as Jason shivers.

"I don't—” He swallows roughly, presses his eyes shut for a second to force his throat to cooperate. But all that comes out is a thin, "I haven't ever—”

Slade's eye narrows a little more. Stays that way. There has to be some understanding of what Jason's half-formed sentences mean, what he's thinking and feeling. "I'll do what I can."

It's not an apology. It's not comfort, even. But it's enough. Maybe.

He shuts his eyes as hands push up his shirt, as Slade leans down to press lips against his chest, his ribs. The beard scrapes his skin, the lips are warm and slightly wet. Hands frame his waist and hold him there, as the mouth explores. It's not what he expected, but no, he doesn't want to fight. He doesn't want to turn this into a brutal, violent, painful thing. He's being watched, he's being… being _given_. The least he can get in return is one good thing, one thing to make his first time a memory he wants to keep, not just a violation.

It's not Slade's fault. He's not here by choice any more than Jason is, and he's not doing this by choice either. But he was willing. Willing to do this even if he doesn't want to, willing _not_ to, willing to let Jason suffer it however he wanted to, violent or not. That's… kind. Kinder than Jason would have thought a man like Slade had any right to be. It makes things a little better, somehow. If he shuts his eyes and pretends that the weakness in his limbs is just tiredness, that he's in one of his safehouses instead of a cell, maybe this could be something like his choice.

He makes himself think of how Slade looked when he walked in. Tall, powerful, the muscle in his bare chest, his arms, his legs. The strong angle to his jaw, and the pale blue of his eye. He takes in a breath and gets that alpha scent on his tongue, sharp as it was when he first breathed it in, but not as strong now that he knows it. Steel, the acrid tinge of gunpowder, the tang of copper he recognizes as blood. It shouldn't smell good, but somehow it does. It smells familiar. Powerful.

He wouldn't have minded, he doesn't think. In some other world, some other time, if Slade had approached him, maybe he would have agreed to something. An alpha with experience, who wouldn't be put off by his scars, who looks like Slade does… It could have happened. He can pretend.

Jason keeps his eyes shut.

Hands move to his hips, ease down his pants and Slade follows. His legs are nudged apart, breath fanning hot against everything between. His fingers curl into the sheets of the bed under him, nerves making his heart jump, his breath quicken. He nearly flinches at the touch of tongue, before he shudders. Those hands clasp warm against his thighs, ease his legs up to a bend and hold them there, warm and strong. Hold him open, spread around broad shoulders.

It's not like he's a nun. He's touched himself, like anybody else. He knows how it feels. He knows how _unlike_ this it feels.

This is so different from the targeted pressure of his own hands. It's intense in it's impreciseness, a warmer, fuller build that isn't aiming for just quick gratification. It's tongue and fingers instead, hunting out what makes him squirm, what makes him gasp. What makes him reach down and grab at Slade's shoulder, solid and hot beneath his hand. He digs his nails into it and Slade rumbles approvingly, shifting closer, pressing harder at him.

It's over so much faster than he expects. Maybe Slade doesn't know him like he knows himself, and it's not the quick stress-relief that he gets by his own hands, but still it builds fast. All too soon the wave in his gut is cresting, strong behind his pelvis, making his thighs tremble. He gasps and shakes, and crashes into it.

Slade gentles in the aftermath, pressing up and shifting over him, a hand at his waist, the other sliding around the back of his neck. "That's it," he murmurs, close enough Jason can feel the breath on his ear. "That's beautiful, boy."

Jason shivers, clutches at Slade's shoulders when the hand on his neck lightly squeezes, fogging the edges of his mind. His eyes flicker open, and Slade's pressed close to him but past him is the ceiling. Black metal.

Everything comes back in a rush. Aliens, the abduction, the cell... _Slade_. What he doesn't have any choice in.

His nails dig in harder, and Slade shifts back to look at him.

There has to be something in his face to betray the sudden remembrance, some panic or fear or anger over what he knows is about to happen. Slade pauses, gaze flicking between his eyes. There's no pity there, or fear. Just a look, piercing deep underneath his skin, deep past the muscle and bone of him right to his thoughts.

"Do you want to fight?" Slade asks again, staring right at him.

He does. And he doesn't. Not Slade, but everything else that's brought him to this point, trapped at the edge of something that he can't refuse.

"No."

Slade stays still a moment longer, and nods. The hand at his neck squeezes again, then retreats to cup his jaw. "Close your eyes. Focus on my scent. My touch."

Jason swallows, and does it. Tries to ignore everything else screaming for his attention and only focus on the heat of Slade's mouth, pressing to his neck. The press of hips between his thighs, blunt pressure and then a _slide_ that makes his breath catch. Pressure and a stretching ache, his thighs squeezing tight on instinct, his teeth baring. It's a _lot._ More than he thought, pressing him open with small, rocking thrusts that never quite pass the edge of overwhelming the lingering pleasure with pain. He's still a little relieved when Slade stills, deep inside him and hot, filling him more than he knew he could be filled. Not that he knew much.

Teeth graze at his neck. Hands wander his chest, tease lower, and slowly Jason finds himself relaxing. His thighs ease their grip, and tension of one kind turns to something entirely different, arching his back instead of raising his shoulders, making him bare his neck to the teasing touches instead of digging his nails into Slade's back.

"Good," Slade praises, as he begins to shift. "Just like that."

It still aches a little, but less and less in a bad way. More in a way of unfulfillment, his pulse echoing between his legs, a need rising in the pit of his stomach that he doesn't think he's felt before.

Hands bring him close, keep him held tight to a chest, his back supported in a low arch, his thighs sliding around Slade's waist and holding him just as tight. He doesn't want it to end. He just wants to stay here, surrounded by the strength of Slade's arms, held and wanted and only existing in this moment. Just this moment.

Teeth close on the side of his neck, and he falls apart. Into scent and feeling, into a keen and trembling that he can't begin to control. There's blood in his nose and the warmth of fire under his skin, so intense he can't tell the pleasure from the pain for a few moments, can't do anything but cling and arch and feel the drive against him, into him, and _in_ , pushing till there's nowhere left to go, nowhere left to reach. Till there's a tightening and swell and a _lock_ , and Jason knows without knowing that this is the end of it all.

The teeth at his neck ease, but don't entirely release. They stay as a hot pressure, and it feels good. It feels _so_ good, the haze from that mixing in with the haze from Slade's joining with him. Warmth and pleasure, suffusing every inch of his being, from bone to the tips of his fingers.

Is this what everyone talks about? This feeling of safety, of floating and yet being grounded, surrounded but not trapped?

Slade’s weight pulls him to his side, a hand cupping his skull, to bring it to Slade’s chest, an arm wrapped around his back to hold him close. A low rumble leaves him, and Jason hears something similar leave his own throat. Not as low, a purr more than a growl.

Lips press to his throat. “Rest, kid. I have you.”

He doesn’t know why he believes it, but he does.

**Author's Note:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)
> 
> (Content warnings explanation: Jason is abducted by aliens on account of being an omega and given to alpha!Slade, who is being held against his will as a gladiator/slave. Aliens demand sex - which Jason is very against, as is Slade - and will not take no for an answer. Mutual noncon with Slade agreeing to do it for the sake of keeping Jason alive. Only violence is on the part of the aliens.)


End file.
